Brand-new day.

Seven weeks. I guess that's all it takes for one's life to change so completely that one actually "feels" different on the inside. I went to bed last night feeling utterly exhausted. I told my husband I felt as if I had no bones. I told him I was just going to watch television, and if I fell asleep as early as 8:30, that was okay -- I'd sleep through. It was as if all of the pressures, upheavals, angst and pain of the last seven weeks had congregated for a last hurrah, before finally letting go.

As I sit here blinking this morning, I wonder if I feel the same way as those who have endured an earthquake feel when the shaking finally stops. I feel ... changed. My world is ... different.

Seven weeks ago, my biggest concern was getting ready for surgery and recovery.

Six weeks ago, I was recovering.

Five weeks ago, my beloved "godmother" was admitted to hospital in another community. She didn't want me to come see her as I was still recovering. She turned 80 years old late that week. We talked by phone every day or every other day.

Four weeks ago, I visited Vernice in the hospital, only to walk into the room and think she was dead -- she was slumped down in bed and looking grey. She'd had a stroke that morning. Later that week, although she and I were as close as mother and daughter, and she had no children of her own, members of her family decided to take my key to her house and act as if I mattered no more to Vernice than her hairdresser did. Two days after that, Vernice regained consciousness and we had a very good visit, in spite of the family not bothering to tell me she was awake. The day after that was the last time I saw her. She was confused, thinking it was still right after my surgery when she'd told me not to visit. She got upset with me and told me to leave, so I did.

Three weeks ago, my new "liason" with the family (a genuinely likeable person) had the unpleasant duty of calling me and telling me that the family didn't want me to visit anymore, as I "had upset her". In some ways, I was relieved, as I didn't know what Vernice wanted me to do at that point, and the 48-hours of trying to figure it out was eroding my faculties.

Two weeks ago, my liaison was forwarding me any information he had about her condition which seemed to be gradually deteriorating. I was in a "holding pattern". I began to sink into a low-level depression akin to grief, as I felt I'd already lost her.

Last week, she began to slip deeper. Friday morning, I got the call. She was gone.

Yesterday, we had her funeral. In a completely previously unexpected twist, my mother and I saw each other for the first time after a ten-year-long estrangement. It went very well. I think Vernice would be pleased.

This morning I feel as if a new volume of the book of my life has been cracked open. I still feel like I could sleep for a week, but it's a gentle fatigue, not the kind that feels like you're being ground to dust. Today I will take it easy, watch a few Firth movies, and just lay low. Hang out with my dog and cat. Maybe plant some flowers.

Vernice would like that.